In My Time of Dying
by xlenaleex
Summary: Based on the episode In My Time of Dying, after that big car crash where Dean ends up in a coma. But in this one, Dean actually goes with Tessa and meets up with his mom in heaven, while Sam and John mourn and realize Dean was the one who held them together. WARNING: Major Character Death.


In My Time of Dying

My sisters request: _I've always wanted a fic based on the episode _In My Time of Dying_, after that big car crash where Dean ends up in a coma. But in this one, Dean actually goes with Tessa and meets up with his mom in heaven, while Sam and John mourn and realize Dean was the one who held them together._

And I guess I just must really love her because I keep fulfilling her demands requests.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize is not mine.

Warning: Major Character Death

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"Moment of truth. No changing your mind later. So what's it going to be?"

And suddenly Dean can't think of a good reason why he shouldn't go with her. No. He wasn't done fighting yet. But was anyone ever really? And what made him so much more special than anyone else? Not a damn thing that's what.

Tessa was right. The world would go on without him. The fight would continue. It was time for him to tap out.

And yea, maybe he was a little scared. But looking into his reaper's warm brown eyes was eerily comforting. Sam would be pissed, but he would eventually forgive him right? He would understand that there was nothing that Dean could do. When your time was up…

"Yea, okay."

In another part of the hospital a similar deal was being made, but it would come too late.

Tessa led Dean back to his room and his heart constricted at the way Sam leaned over his body. The worry in his brother's face almost stopped him, almost caused him to turn back; to fight, to cling to the hope that somehow, something, _someone_ would save him.

A hand on his shoulder jarred him from that lie. No one would save him. Not this time. He wished that his father was here. Just to see his face one more time. To say goodbye.

"It's time Dean." Tessa's soft voice fell over him in a blanket of peace. Dimly he was aware of his death, body simply letting go, monitors blaring the warning, Sam's cries rising above the cacophony, calling in vain for help. Dean found the strange permeating warmth the most surprising. He always thought death would be cold.

"It's okay Dean." Tessa breathed enveloping him from behind in a soft embrace. "Let go."

And with one last apologetic look at his little brother, he did.

No one saw the black cloud sweeping into the room, racing towards the reaper in the corner.

"You're too late."

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"Calling it. Time of death, 10:33 am."

"No! Dean! DEAN!" Sam threw himself on his brother, shaking him violently, unable to accept that Dean was gone. He barely noticed the medical personnel all filing out to give him privacy.

"Sam?!"

He looked up to see his father in the doorway, the same look of surprised disbelief staring back at him.

"Dad! Dean he's…. he's…." He looked down, unable to say the words as his dad stumbled over. Sam watched as John's free hand caressed Dean's chest, as if the action could still bring his son comfort as it had so many years ago; as if it could bring him back to them.

It didn't.

The weight of what John had just lost fell on him like a tidal wave and he slumped atop Dean's body. Hot tears soaking into the hospital gown covering him. He could feel Sam quaking next to him, still shaking his brother's shoulder, convinced that Dean would wake up if he just shook hard enough. John wasn't disillusioned, but he was lost in the overwhelming sense of _failure_. He'd failed his son. He'd let his little boy die.

Hot, quick, anger filled him and he jerked up, eyes scanning the room for what he couldn't see. He found it in the reflection of the window and before he could think about what he was doing he had the colt out and the bullet fired. For a brief moment, a mere handful of seconds, he savored the surprise in those yellow eyes and the visible jolts and jerks that let him know he'd hit the mark… too late.

He was always too late.

Sam jerked around at the sound of gunfire and John took a moment to secure the empty gun in his pants, shifting his arm to hide the hole in his button-up.

"Dad! It's-."

"Look away Sam."

"But it's-."

"I know who it is Sam. Look away."

Reluctantly, Sam focused back on the cooling body beneath them before raising his gaze slowly to his father's. The commotion of medical personnel just outside the door went ignored as Sam watched his father begin to tear up.

"You knew." Sam croaked, tears still falling onto his own cheeks. "How?"

"You kidding? Too good a show for him to pass up." John's face scrunched up in pain and he lost the ability to talk. Turning away and lowering his head to his firstborn's chest, John began to cry.

And just like that, a lifelong war in pursuit of revenge was over.

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Sam waited until the they'd removed all the tubes and machinery before he approached Dean. His eyes were already red and burning from grief, but he couldn't stop the flow as tears continued to fall. He was still reeling from the last few hours. Officially, they hadn't been brought up on charges. The body yellow-eyes formerly inhabited had been declared dead for several decades, and Sam wasn't surprised by how the medical personnel shrugged it off, choosing to ignore what they couldn't explain.

Staring down at paling skin he felt like he was five again. He didn't know what to do without his big brother. Dean had been the anchor holding their family together. Now that he was gone Sam felt lost. What did he do now?

"Tell me what do Dean." He whispered, gripping a cold hand. "I don't know what to do."

But that wasn't true. He did know what to do, didn't he? Had always known, and could practically hear Dean's voice in his ear telling him to _live_; to go back to school, become a lawyer, get married and have a gaggle of kids... grow old. Do all the things that Dean had given his life to make sure Sam could experience. Things that maybe even Dean had wanted for himself, but had sacrificed for him, for _them_, their family.

Sam didn't want to. He didn't want to go on without his brother. He lamented all the things he never got to tell Dean. How much he loved him. How much he appreciated the sacrifices Dean had made. How much he needed him. Had always needed him. Still needed him. All things he would never get the chance to say. The guilt was damning. It was unbearable.

"Help me Dean. Help me."

"Sam."

He jerked at his name, trying to wipe his eyes before he turned and saw that it was only Bobby.

"He's gone." He wheezed turning back to the body.

"Yea son. He is."

"I miss him."

The firm hand on his shoulder was so reminiscent of Dean that Sam gasped before recognizing the allusion. The following silence was surprisingly comfortable, considering, and Sam imagined Dean sending him strength through Bobby's warm fingers.

Leaning down he kissed the face he'd spend a lifetime remembering and turned to leave.

"Sam…" he could hear the wariness in Bobby's voice as he scooped up his backpack. "Sam we need to talk about preparations."

"I just…I need a minute Bobby."

He swept out of the hospital room, eyes open for a good place to hide. When he looked up to see his father approaching, hot, quick anger filled him. John Winchester. It was _his_ fault that Dean was dead. _His _fault that they'd lived the shitty life that brought them all to this bitter end. Sam decided then that he was done with his father. There was no longer a need for pretense. The glue holding them together had gone dry, brittle, and he felt the final break as he slid his eyes from John and passed him without uttering a single word.

He found what he needed just down the hall. A small dark room that would suit his needs and keep him from prying eyes. With trembling hands, he pulled the board from his bag and sat on the floor, shaking in anticipation.

"Dean?" he whispered. "Are you hear?"

He waited a moment. His dread growing with each passing second.

"Dean...please!" he demanded. His fingers were shaking. Was that Dean trying to communicate, or his own anxiety making his fingers tremble? He took a deep breath and forced the quivering to still.

"Dean?"

The silence was deafening. It held none of the comfort of the previous quiet with Bobby. The small flicker of hope that had managed to stay alive after the initial loss finally shuttered and died. Alone, in a dimly lit room overrun with a muted stillness, he was left with the cold numbing darkness that was a world without his big brother.

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John entered the room and paused at the sight of Bobby clasping a cold hand. There was a moment of awkward silence when he really wanted to kick the man out. John had been waiting to say goodbye to his son for several hours. At the same time, he didn't want the man to turn and face him, didn't want to have to deal with the accusation he would see there. The mechanic _had_ warned him after all.

A few more tense moments passed before Bobby straightened up and turned. John was surprised to find only sorrow looking back at him instead of blame. But suddenly he wished that it _had_ been there. John deserved it, deserved every single dirty look his friend kept hidden.

"I'll go after Sam." he declared.

John almost told him not to bother. He'd seen the look his youngest had given him as they passed in the hallway. Sam blamed him for Dean's death. As he should. If John had only been faster, if he hadn't left them for so long, if he'd been a better father, then they wouldn't be where they were.

He'd known the moment Sam's brown eyes had slid away that that was the last time any son of his would look at him. Sam was running away again, and this time for good. John let him go. Didn't even say goodbye. Nothing good had come from keeping such a tight leash on his boys. Maybe releasing Sam would right a few wrongs. Maybe, one day, Sam could be happy again.

Bobby moving towards the door jarred him from his thoughts and he stepped aside to let the other man out. Once alone, he moved slowly towards the bed, wiping his mouth at the gray pallor, but refusing to be sick. Sitting on the edge of the bed he leaned over to finger the soft blonde locks Dean had inherited from his mother.

"You know, when you were a kid." He began in a soft voice. "I'd come home from a hunt, and sometimes after what I'd seen, I'd be… I'd be wrecked. And you, you'd come up to me and you, you'd put your hand on my shoulder and you'd look me in the eye and you'd… You'd say "It's okay, Dad."

He choked up then, the gasps forcing themselves from his chest. He watched the tears hit Dean's nose and roll down his cheek. A waterfall of regret.

"You shouldn't have had to say that to me." He found himself admitting. And why not. It was the truth. "I should have been saying that to you. You know, I put- I put too much on your shoulders, I made you grow up too fast. You took care of Sammy, you took care of me. You did that, and you didn't complain, not once."

He had to pause then to pull himself together; wipe the face full of mucus on his sleeve so it didn't drip on his boy's face. He'd never see his boy smile again, never hear the voice so similar to his own, never see Mary's eyes peering out at him, shining with devotion, radiating love, commitment, admiration, and all without saying a word.

"I just want you to know that I love you son, and I am so proud of you." And why had it taken this long to tell his son that? Why did it take his child's death to pull the words from him? He didn't deserve Dean's love. Hadn't deserved it for a long time. He was unforgiveable.

"Dean, I'm sorry."

And he was. God was he sorry. For all of it. He would have given anything to change it; had, in fact, given everything. But it had come too late. He could never fix all the shit he'd messed up.

"I'm sorry."

And it _wasn't_ enough. But it was all he had.

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Bobby had waited for John to say something. He wasn't sure what. Just something. But the man had only stood there like an idgit. Nothing new there. He wondered if maybe he should apologize for the unfairness of it all. That's what folk did when a loved one died. But the thought of apologies only made him think of the monumental one that John owed Dean.

Bobby had told him. Bobby had _warned_ him. He thought about saying something to John about that, but anger and condemnation took too much effort at the moment. Besides, it was the last thing Dean would have wanted.

When nothing was forthcoming, he simply turned and walked out of the room, muttering that he'd check on Sam. Halfway down the hall he heard a crash, immediately followed by Sam thundering from a dim room just ahead. He followed the boy at a distance, trying to let him cool off a bit, but approached him once outside.

"Sam?"

The kid whipped around, anger in his eyes.

"How could he leave me Bobby?!" he yelled. The mechanic was unfazed by the outburst. "He told me, he told me before he… that he was hunting it. He was hunting the reaper. And you know Dean, Bobby. You know he doesn't just…give up! He doesn't lose! Why couldn't that damn reaper just let him go. Just this once."

"Everybody loses sometime or other kid. You know that."

Sam shook his head fiercely. Denial.

"This is dad's fault." He seethed. "If it weren't for him Dean would still be alive. I hope he rots in hell for leaving Dean like he did. For making Dean worry and making us run around on this wild demon chase all for his little vendetta. Dean _worshipped_ him and dad never appreciated him. He didn't deserve Dean's devotion."

Bobby stayed quiet, choosing not to point out that Sam had left Dean too. That in a way, Dean had also 'worshipped' Sam; if giving his entire life to the pursuit of his brother's safety could be called 'worship'. He wondered if the kid even knew what he was angry about. Maybe Sam thought it was the lack of mercy from the reaper, or the culminating neglect of their father, but Bobby knew the truth.

Sam was angry at himself. In as much as John had failed Dean, Sam was not without fault. Neither of them had appreciated Dean as they should have. Till this day, neither father nor brother knew some of the things that Dean had had to do to keep their family together and alive; and they never would. Bobby had meant it when he said he would take it to the grave. He had just assumed he would go first. Shows how much he'd been an ass today.

Sam spun on his heal, breaking the quiet pause after his burst of anger and headed towards a beat down 2002 Honda Civic. It was unlocked. He got in and began hotwiring it.

"Sam, wait. Where ya goin son?"

"I don't know." Sam responded. "Away…from here. From _him_."

"Why don't you come on back to my place for a bit. I'll take care of all the arrangements alright? You don't need to worry about a thing."

The start of the engine failed to mask Sam's response and Bobby could tell by the flinch that the kid had forgotten that someone needed to salt and burn Dean's body. He hadn't meant it as a jab and opened his mouth to apologize but the kid beat him to it.

"Thanks Bobby." Sam clipped, reaching out and slapping him on the shoulder. "You were always there for us. I'll never forget that."

Bobby knew last words when he heard them; had heard too many of them in his lifetime. But Sam had already slammed the door, whipping dangerously out of the parking lot.

"Idgit."

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John was still there when Bobby returned, hovering over his lost boy. He ignored the tear tracked face and sat in a chair across the room. He'd expected the silence and was content to wait, but he didn't have to wait long.

"Did Sam say his goodbyes?' John finally croaked. So the bastard knew. He knew and just let him go without a word. Without saying what needed to be spoken.

"Sends his regards." Bobby replied, letting just a slip of snark enter his voice. John snickered.

"I'll bet."

Another pause and Bobby began to grow restless. Plans needed to be made and he'd yet to say his own goodbye to the angel on the bed.

"Where do you want him?" he finally asked, surprised when an overly familiar flinch greeted him. Perhaps there was room for anger after all.

"Damnit John!"

"Don't Bobby. Don't ask me to do that. Don't ask me to bury my boy. Please."

A small part of Bobby enjoyed seeing John begging for a change, but the larger part of him was furious. He couldn't believe this shit.

"Listen up you bastard!" He cursed, popping out of the chair. "You and Sam were only people that boy cared about and I'll be damned if he's as alone in death as he was in life. Now I don't mind taking care of the arrangements but you _will_ be there goddamnit or so help me I will hunt you down and finish what I should have done years ago."

He saw the weight of his words settle on John's shoulder and didn't give a damn.

"Now. _Where_ do you want him?"

It took John two tries. "With his mother."

Kansas City. Alright. Fine. Good a place as any. Dean would like that. He watched John unfold himself from his hunched position and stand to leave.

"I'll text you the time and day. You better make sure you get it."

John refused to turn around and meet Bobby's ire which was just fine with him. He was mad enough to slingshot a bullet, right into John's dumbass face. He watched John's gaze flick to the keys Bobby had thrown on the table.

"Find your own damn ride." He huffed.

John nodded tightly, once, and then he was gone.

Bobby blew out a sigh and stood there for a moment trying to get his breathing under control. A nurse knocked on the door tentatively and poked her head in.

"Excuse me. I don't mean to rush. We just wanted to know if you had started thinking about making some kind of arrangements?"

"Yea...Yea." Bobby nodded. It was about time his boy found some rest.

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Three days later found Bobby at the gravesite, sweating away with a shovel.

"I'm too old for this shit." He muttered, but didn't slow his pace any. For Dean, he would be as strong as was needed.

He heard the footsteps behind him and staved off a sigh.

"Don't just stand there, pick up the damn shovel and help me idgit."

The shock of long brown hair in his peripheral startled him. Of course, he'd sent a text to Sam of the time and place, but he hadn't really believed the kid would show up. He snapped his mouth closed and continued digging, unwilling to risk saying something that would scare the boy off.

They worked quickly and quietly until they hit the coffin. Bobby breathed a sigh of relief and stood up straight, cracking his back with a frown at the hollow sound. The box had originally been meant for John and was empty, save for Mary's ashes.

Together he and Sam maneuvered the new coffin over the old before throwing it open. Bobby had gone to pick up the body that evening and the coroners had done a good job. Even put a little red on his cheeks. A pale imitation, but an appreciated one.

Salt. _Listen…. silence._

Holy water. _Watch…where was he?_

Fire. _Anger…._

The flames had only burned for a minute when Sam went rigid beside him. Bobby mimicked him and waited. He couldn't say anything now. If he opened his mouth a string of curses for one John Winchester was going to spew forth like a damn typhoon. Sam saved him from an outburst by turning and disappearing nearly as silently as he had arrived.

Bobby remained tense, shaking with fury.

"Damn you John Winchester!" he hissed. "Damn you."

That's when he saw it. A small movement off to his right stood up from the shadows and Bobby wondered just how long he'd been there. Bastard could have helped him dig at least. The anger slowly drained out of him and the fatigue of the past few days began to settle once more. The shadowy figure of John stayed a lot longer than his son had. But eventually he too sunk back into the shadows.

Finally, Bobby was alone with Dean. He hadn't had time the day he died. Then the hospital had taken charge and shipped his body to KC. Even that evening he'd been so busy transferring the body to the gravesite that he hadn't had a chance to say his last words.

"Dean…son."

Typical. Now that he had his moment he wasn't sure what he wanted to say. Dean had been the son he'd never had. Both of the boys had been. But there had been something special about Dean. The kind of specialness that made a man stand up and follow, fight for, protect… _love_.

For a man who'd inspired so much in others, he'd been woefully neglected it himself. But not from Bobby. Never from Bobby. He'd done his damnedest to let Dean know that he was loved, that he was wanted. In that way Dean would always be his boy.

And maybe that's what he should say.

Instead, he pours a fist into the dying flames before knocking back one for himself. He wonders what Dean is doing right now, wonders what Heaven is like. Because it's the only place Dean _could_ go. Funny how Bobby was confident that in death, Dean was finally getting what he had deserved in life.

The fire died.

He buried the remains.

Stood above the kid he'd loved like his own.

"Save a room for me….Idgit."

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Dean awoke to warmth he hadn't felt in…well he couldn't really remember when. He opened his eyes, shocked to find he was back home in his old house, in his old bed.

He got up slowly, looking down at himself in confusion at why the doorknob came all the way to eye level. Wait. He remembered that shirt. It had been his favorite when he was-…running to the mirror his eyes grew wide as he stared back at his four-year-old self in a shirt that read 'I Wuv Hugz'. Okay. Yea. Why was he four?

"Deeean! I made pancaaaakes!"

_Mom!_

He propelled his little legs to the door, tripping several times while adjusting to the shorter limbs, before sprinting down the stairs and into the kitchen. And there was his mother in her favorite white dress. Dean wanted to run to her; he wanted to throw his arms around her, but he couldn't move. He was frozen under her gaze and stood still, watching as her face softened in understanding.

"Oh Dean." She breathed setting down the plate of pancakes. "Come here."

At her command the hold broke and he pitter pattered right into her arms. There were no words suitable to voice the ache in his heart, the ache that was her, his mother.

"Shhh. It's okay Dean. It's okay."

Her soothing hands in his hair only made him cry harder. The reality of something that he had wished for his whole life was painful in its bestowal.

"I know. I know. You've had such a hard time. You've been _so_ brave! It's okay to cry baby. I've got you now. You can rest. It's okay."

He relaxed fully into her at her, not even realizing he'd been holding back before. But as the tears soaked her pretty dress his memory tickled. This wasn't right. He remembered this day. It was his _mother _that had been crying, and _his _arms that had wrapped around her in reassurance.

But why had she been crying?... Oh. Yes. He remembered now. It was because of his father. His father had left them and she was sad.

"Alright! I'm ready for some Pancakes!"

The deep smooth voice jolted him from his mother's neck and he raised wet eyes to see his father come with little baby Sammy safe in his arms. His _smiling_ father. But as he watched the smile disappeared another expression he'd rarely witnessed took its place.

"Uhoh. What's wrong Dean-o?" he continued, coming to kneel down and wrap an arm around them, careful not to jostle the baby cradled in the other. "Did you have a bad dream?"

Dean choked at the suggestion. Yea right. A dream. Maybe he _was _dreaming because his father had never walked through those doors. He certainly hadn't gathered them up into one of Dean's favorite mommy-daddy-Sammy hugs. He'd forgotten what it felt like to feel this warm, to feel this safe. On second thought it _had_ to be a dream because this was heaven.

At the word something clicked in his brain.

_Heaven_.

This was heaven. And he was dead.

At the realization he felt a tug in his core and suddenly he was outside the window, watching a family huddle that he'd been a part of just a moment before. Another reflection had him patting his chest in disbelief. He was the right age again. Startled he looked around, eyes drawn to the figure approaching him.

It was mother.

He flicked a quick gaze back towards the window, just long enough to see his mother and father kissing his tears away, before focusing back on the fellow doppelganger in front of him.

"Mom?" he breathed. He had to admit, he was confused.

"It's me Dean."

He smiled and reached out to pull her into a hug, even though he'd just been in her arms.

"Am I really…. Is this really heaven?"

"Yes Dean."

"Why am I four?" he chuckled, feeling her start to pull back, but refusing to release her.

"Because this is where it began. It's what…it's what your life should have been Dean. What I always wanted for you."

Finally, he pulled back, but left his arms on her shoulders, needing the physical connection to be sure she wouldn't float away.

"It's a pretty awesome dream mom."

"It's yours Dean. If you want it."

He flicked his gaze to the side, unable to help another quick glance through the window. They were laughing now. Filling up plates with the promised pancakes.

"I want it." He breathed. And he did. With his whole heart he wanted it. But...

"But what about you?" As much as he enjoyed the dream he wanted his mother with him. His real mother, not a dream mother; even if it was a heaven quality dream.

"I'm there, Dean. Just like you are."

Her hand touched his cheek and as he leaned into he felt himself slip between this Dean and the four-year-old Dean, one-minute licking syrup from his little hands, the next soaking his mother's hand with the tears streaming down his face.

He really had to stop that. Sliding his gaze to the window again he watched his toddler self and the mother holding him turn to stare at his grown-up self and the mother holding him.

"Yea…" he gasped overwhelmed at the duel sensation.

"Yea. I'd like that."

And then he was four again and staring into those big brown eyes he loved so much as he helped his mommy feed the baby. He felt sorry for the baby, having to eat such icky food. Sammy was in for a treat when he was big enough to chew. Dean would be a good big brother and share all the yummy treats that mommy made.

In a spark of mischievousness, he took his messy, syrup laden hand that was splattered with baby food and stuck it on his father's face.

"Dean-o!" His father exclaimed aghast and Dean shrieked with laughter.

Wow. Had his voice really been that high? But he didn't have time to dwell on it because mommy had joined in the fun and now they were hiding under the table from daddy's mushed-apple slinging spoon.

It was the best day of his life.

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The end.

Hope you enjoyed it :)


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